


There's A Thirty Two Percent Chance That At Least One Of Us Will Need Therapy

by lapsus_calami



Series: What's The Chance? [2]
Category: Psych
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, still more hurt than comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the weeks following the events in the basement Shawn finds his usual coping methods less than effective and struggles to admit that he might actually need some outside help. </p><p>Part 2/3</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's A Thirty Two Percent Chance That At Least One Of Us Will Need Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly I have a problem with series. My "maybe I'll write a second chapter" turned into "so I wrote two more stories."

**There's A Thirty Two Percent Chance That At Least One Of Us Will Need Therapy**

 

**Zero**

"Spencer?" Lassie says softly, questioningly. He’s still using that infuriatingly gentle tone of voice that Shawn would find incredibly amusing if his hands would just stop shaking.

"Shawn?"

Somehow it's even worse when Lassie uses his first name. Lassiter never calls him by his first name, and the fact that he's done so multiple times tonight just cements the fact that everything is most definitely not okay despite what Shawn’s brain keeps trying to tell him.

"Shawn, I really need you to write your statement. As soon as you’re done you can go. Your father's waiting for you."

Henry is probably the last person Shawn wants to see right now, not that it's much of an accomplishment. Shawn doesn’t want to see anyone right now, just wants to shut himself in a dark closet and forget the world exists for a few hours until he can screw his head on straight again. He recognizes the signs; he's over stimulated, needs some time to decompress and come down, to settle back into himself. It happens sometimes, even if it's never been quite this bad before.

Lassiter shifts awkwardly; Shawn can imagine how weird this whole situation is for the detective and, while he'd usually pounce on anything with the ability to make Lassie uncomfortable, today he just wants Lassie to leave him the fuck alone. So he makes a show of pulling the papers closer to himself, tries to still his trembling hands, and carefully begins filling out his name and information. When he’s done with that and Lassiter is still standing there like a fretting mother chicken, he starts in on penning out the dialogue from _The Princess Bride_. Verbatim. It's surprisingly soothing, and by the time he gets to the first kissing part Lassiter is easing from the room and his hands have stopped shaking.

He meant to just do it until Lassie left, but it's calming so he keeps going, losing himself to the movie in his mind and diligently writing out the words. He doesn't want to think about the basement or Frederick or how terrified Gus had looked or how terrified he’d felt. Doesn't want to break that down into objective fact, doesn’t want to remember. So he sits and writes _The Princess Bride_ until his hand cramps and he reaches the end, and then he keeps writing.

It takes him two hours and forty-seven minutes. His statement is fourteen pages long.

He doesn't mention the basement until the end. Even then it only fills half a page.

*

"I want to go home," Shawn says as soon as he and Henry climb in the truck. His father hasn’t said a word to him since he met Shawn coming up from interrogation after finishing the statement. Shawn thinks maybe he’s mad that Shawn almost got himself and Gus killed. Again. At any rate the odd silence is setting Shawn’s already shredded nerves on fire, and if he didn’t need the ride he’d never have gotten in the truck to begin with.

"Okay."

"To my apartment," he clarifies, because with that easy acquiesce Henry most certainly does not realize what home Shawn is referring to. Henry looks startled at that, hand stalling out on the keys and head swiveling towards Shawn like he can't believe the words that had just come from his child's mouth.

"I thought maybe it'd be best if you stayed with me for a few days," he says finally, evenly. He turns the key, the truck roaring to life and purring as he pulls from the lot.

Shawn closes his eyes letting his head fall against the cool window. It feels good against his skin. "Take me to my apartment," he says, and he doesn't even care if it sounds like he's begging.

"Shawn," Henry starts with a heavy sigh, and Shawn heads him off because he's too tired to argue.

" _Please_ just take me home."

Henry sighs again, is silent for a long time, and then just softly says, "Okay."

Somehow it's worse than Lassie calling him by his first name.

*

"Did you read this?" Carlton demands thrusting the stack of papers underneath O'Hara's nose where she's bent over her desk working. It’s the third time Carlton’s read the pile of nonsense, and he still can’t make heads or tails of ninety percent of it.

O'Hara leans back squinting slightly at the papers hovering a scant inch beneath her nose. "Shawn's statement?" she asks. "Of course I read it."

"It's full of nonsense," Carlton says thumbing through the pages again. He'd been shocked to find Shawn's statement multiple pages long, but his shock had quickly given way to confusion when he realized ninety percent was pure gibberish.

"It's not nonsense," O'Hara says shuffling papers around on her desk, and of course she doesn’t think its drivel. "It's the dialogue from _The Princess Bride_."

Carlton blinks wondering if O'Hara is trying to clarify or confuse him further. "Dialogue from what now?"

" _The Princess Bride_ ," O'Hara repeats slowly, peering up at him like he’s missed out on something precious as a child. "It's a movie."

"Spencer wrote us a movie?" he asks. He really shouldn't be surprised, but he is for some reason.

"Well, technically, he just wrote the dialogue," O'Hara says. "And he did write his actual statement too."

She's not wrong, but that doesn’t explain the thirteen and a half pages of nonsense that comes before said actual statement. "It's half a page long," he protests flipping to the last page and twisting it around like O'Hara needs a visual reminder.

"We've gotten shorter," O'Hara defends a note of anger slipping into her words. “And we've gotten longer with less detail.”

For once Carlton lets it slide, taking it in stride as a reminder to check himself. It's been a stressful night, and, again, she's not wrong. Though brief Shawn's statement is surprisingly detailed up until the point where Frederick coerced the two pseudo-detectives into the basement and tied them to the chairs. Guster's statement outlines how Frederick produced a handgun and played a sick game of Russian Roulette, getting to the last chamber before Carlton and the others arrived. Shawn's statement by contrast glosses over those facts, failing to mention both the game and that they'd been on the sixth turn, and ends abruptly with Carlton taking down Frederick.

It had shaken him to learn, as he’d read the statements, that Shawn would have died if he’d hesitated just a moment longer. Still shakes him to know just how close Shawn had been to dying in that basement. It puts into perspective Shawn’s frankly unnerving reaction after the fact, and Carlton finds he really can’t fault the psychic for writing several pages of drivel before tackling the events of the basement.

"I just don't understand why he couldn't just skip all this crap," he grumbles eventually, and O'Hara's expression softens.

"You saw how shook up he was," she says. Carlton doesn’t miss the note of worry in her words. "It's probably how he copes."

Carlton frowns thinking back to Spencer sitting mutely in the interrogation room and staring blankly at the papers before him. Thinks about how his hands had been trembling ever so slightly, only settling once he'd begun writing. And he thinks O'Hara may just be right.

*

Gus shows up at nine in the morning the next day ringing Shawn's broken buzzer for almost a solid ten minutes before Shawn musters up the energy to get out of bed and let him into the building. He looks impeccably put together for having almost been shot in the head three times yesterday. It kind of pisses Shawn off even if he knows Gus copes by finding order.

Gus takes one look at Shawn in his boxers and t-shirt with wildly disheveled hair and shoos him into the bathroom to shower. Apparently he has no respect for people who cope by falling apart. Not that Shawn’s doing that because he isn’t.

Shawn scowls but obeys because an impeccably dressed Gus attempting to order the wildly disordered world is not a man to cross. Not when one feels like shit at any rate. So he digs fresh clothes from the dresser in his room and fails to pull the bathroom door all the way shut as he showers. If Gus notices he doesn't say anything.

Fifteen minutes later he’s ushering a freshly showered and reasonably dressed Shawn into the Blueberry and asking what Shawn wants for breakfast. It's not the sort of question Shawn usually stalls out in answering, but he chalks it up to getting zero sleep last night and just shrugs.

"I dunno," he mumbles leaning against the door and watching the buildings slide by in a blur of colors. "Whatever you want, I guess."

Gus doesn't say anything for a few moments. Shawn can imagine him side-eyeing the passenger side of the car with suspicion. "Pancakes?" he proposes eventually when Shawn remains silent.

The promise of sweet syrup and heavy breakfast cakes actually causes Shawn's stomach to roll uncomfortably and knot in on itself, but he forces himself to sit up and flash Gus a grin. "Sounds good."

The relieved smile he gets in return helps loosen the knot just a little.

*

He and Gus take the day off. There's no reason they can't and neither he nor Gus are up for more than a mindless marathon of _Phineas and Ferb_. Gus doesn’t mention that Shawn completely skips over _CHiPs_ as an option, instead opting for the almost mind-numbingly benign premise of the animated show.

It works, and by the time Gus is leaving for the night Shawn feels a little more centered and like himself. He also feels exhausted having gotten only a few hours of sleep in the past three days. He was tired before the whole mess with Frederick went down, and he’s only more tired now.

So he bids Gus goodnight around eleven and flops into bed with the full intention of sleeping until noon the next day, Vick’s demand for his and Gus’ presence at the station be damned.

He only makes it to three.

*

“You look like shit,” Gus says when Shawn slides into the Blueberry the next morning. Shawn grimaces but says nothing, only sipping repeatedly at the almost too hot coffee. He doesn’t even like coffee, but his brain is sluggish enough that he figures he needs the caffeine boost. Not that caffeine is usually all that effective on him, but he’s desperate enough to try.

“Trouble sleeping?” Gus guesses when he’s pulled out on the road and Shawn still hasn’t said anything.

Shawn just grunts noncommittally at that, digging his fingers under his sunglasses to rub at his eyes. Gus himself looks a little tired, but the dark circles under his eyes don’t even hold a candle to Shawn’s. Although, all things considered, that may have more to do with skin complexion than anything.

Correctly taking Shawn’s silence as a desire to not talk, Gus says nothing more as he drives to the station. Shawn methodically drinks the rest of his coffee, taking measured sips every few seconds. The taste of the coffee on his tongue is almost too thick, and the liquid sits heavy in his empty stomach. But he sucks it all down and bounces his knee impatiently as he waits for any sign that it’ll actually help him feel more human.

By the time they’re heading up the steps to the station he does feel a little more coherent but there’s an almost unbearable jittery energy buzzing under his skin. He pushes his sunglasses up on his head as they enter the building, making a direct beeline for Vick’s office. Gus trails a step or so behind.

Vick looks up when they enter, holding out one finger as she finishes with a phone call. Shawn slides his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels as they wait. While he’d usually be paying close attention to whatever the chief is talking about so as to glean any pertinent information for possible cases, today he just lets her voice wash over him without giving any attention to the words.

After another minute Vick hangs up and gestures for them to have a seat. “Thank you both for coming down today,” she starts as he and Gus lower themselves into by now familiar chairs. She’s eyeing both of them with a modicum of concern, and Shawn fights to not fidget under her gaze. “I wanted to take the time personally to debrief you on the events that transpired the other day.”

Gus shifts uncomfortably, and Shawn focuses on projecting an outward aura of calm. A random joke about the word debrief flashes through his mind, but he lets it pass unspoken focusing instead on not twitching like he’d rather be anywhere else at this given moment.

“Both of your statements were greatly appreciated and match those given by Detectives Lassiter and O’Hara. It was clearly a matter of defense and Detective Lassiter took appropriate measures to ensure you and Mr. Guster were not harmed,” Vice says glancing meaningfully at Shawn.

He swallows and forces a nod. Vick probably notices he’s being uncharacteristically silent, but in his opinion there isn’t much for him to say. He messed up, got himself and Gus into a situation he couldn’t control, and in the end Lassiter had to kill a man. The fault for it lies with him and him alone.

“That said,” Vick continues when neither Shawn or Gus speak up, “what you went through was a traumatic experience. I’m placing both of you on leave for next week, and you won’t be working any cases for the department. This is non-negotiable, Mr. Spencer,” she says when Shawn finally opens his mouth to interrupt.

He closes it with a click, clenching his hands around the armrests of the chair. Immediately he shifts his hands to his lap instead, grinding his teeth together to keep his mouth shut. It’s not that he necessarily disagrees with Vick’s decision; it’s a fairly common one for cops after such an experience and part of him is pleased she’s treating them as such. But another, larger part is furious and wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do for the next week until he’s allowed on cases again.

Shawn doesn’t want to have down time to think and brood over what happened. What he wants, what would be best for _him_ , is to keep busy. So he’s set to argue his case on the matter, but Gus is nodding with a grim expression of understanding so he knows he’ll get no back up there and Vick is still talking.

“This is the number of a local psychologist. Very accomplished and she’s worked with many of the men and women from this department,” Vick says setting two business cards on the edge of her desk. “I highly suggest both of you set up an appointment to see her, preferably sometime this week.”

It may just be Shawn’s imagination, but he thinks she glances a little more pointedly at him than Gus. He drops his gaze to the cards, mind automatically skimming over the name, address, and phone number, before looking back to the chief.

“Is that all?” he asks after a beat of expectant silence.

She nods her head slowly, leaning back in her chair and eyeing him speculatively. “It is. Have a good day, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster.”

He nods jerkily, shoving up from the chair and striding from the room without a backwards glace. In the reflection on the door he sees Gus swipe both cards from the chief’s desk as he leaves so he’s not surprised when Gus presses one of the cards insistently in his hand. He keeps his gaze trained forward, curls his fingers around the hard edges feeling them crumple, and wonders if Gus would notice him throwing it in the trash.

He probably would; best to toss it later then.

 

**One**

Shawn spends the rest of the week pulling himself back together. He never calls that doctor lady, throws away the card actually, but her number is seared in his brain like every goddamn thing he’s ever looked at and he can easily recall it if he wants too. The thing is, though, he doesn’t want to call. He’s spent the last seven days burying the basement and Frederick as deep in his mind as possible, and most certainly doesn’t want to talk to anyone about it.

He’s sleeping again. Not well and not for long, but enough. He’s coping. And if he takes more catnaps during the day, sleeps with all the lights on at night, and still doesn’t close the bathroom door fully because there are no windows in that room then no one has to know.

It gets easier with time, the basement and cuts on his wrists fading more and more every day he goes without thinking about it. It’s far from the first time he’s pushed something out of his mind, and he has plenty of practice in moving past these sorts of things. He’ll be okay on his own. He just needs some time and to get back to work; having other things to focus on makes it easier to ignore the demons in his head.

Shawn sees Gus several times over the course of the week, calls the other man at least once a day, but mostly he’s stays in his apartment working to make sure he’s up for the job when he can finally go back to work. He can tell from the few times he sees Gus in person that Gus is showing a considerable improvement too, the dark circles fading from under his eyes and tension easing from his shoulders.

They fall back into their easy banter, fall back into their routine, and by the time they’re heading back to the office Shawn thinks, maybe in spite of the chances, they’re both in the clear.

*

"Have you called that therapist yet?" Gus asks exactly one week and three days after. He’s already been to see the psychologist himself. Twice. Shawn is less enthusiastic on discussing the whole thing. With anyone.

Shawn huffs maintaining a careful air of aloofness and kicking his feet up on his desk as he replies, "Gus, don't be a three week old avocado. I don't need therapy. I’m fine."

He links his hands together behind his head, flashes Gus his most self-assured grin.

"Sure," Gus says in a tone that implies he most certainly does not agree, though Shawn hasn’t the faintest clue why. He really is fine. "You're totally fine."

Shawn sniffs reaching out the snag the newspaper from his desk, flicking the newspaper up to hide his face as he skims the comics. He elects to ignore Gus' tone and take his words at face value. "You know that's right."

Gus sighs, but he doesn’t say anything more.

*

Vick doesn’t ask about the psychologist, just gives them a simple theft case that Shawn solves in the first three seconds of entering the victim’s home. It’s the butler and if Shawn wasn’t busy inwardly seething about how goddamn easy the whole thing had been, he’d be delighted over it being an absolute cliché.

Two hours after receiving the case he finds the missing jewelry, correctly identifies the culprit, annoys Gus into turning a unique shade of maroon, teases Lassie into turning purple, and scores the digits of the victim’s super hot granddaughter.

All in all it’s a successful day.

He pesters Vick for another case, and he doesn’t call that girl.

*

“And it was the _butler_ ,” Shawn says grinning as he spoons more potatoes onto his plate. He’s actually hungry at the moment, and he’s learned to take advantage when he can actually handle the thought of eating. He still can’t stomach even the smell of eggs but that’s okay. It’s a work in progress; he’s fine. “Can you believe that?”

“That’s pretty cliché,” Henry agrees chewing thoughtfully at a piece of steak. He’s watching Shawn closely, like there’s something hidden beneath the surface. Shawn shrugs it off even if it unnerves him a bit. There’s nothing to find; he’s fine.

“Lassiter was pissed I solved it in two hours,” he continues. He takes a sip of water, grins across the table. “Didn’t have the heart to tell him I solved it in under five minutes. The other hour and fifty-five were spent planning my big reveal.”

Henry just hums, doesn’t offer any criticism or wiseass remarks on Shawn’s career choice. It’s entirely unsettling and Shawn drops his gaze to his plate to pick at his green beans. For some reason his appetite that had been grumbling along contently several seconds before is fading. The smell of marinated steak and buttery potatoes is causing an uncomfortable churning in his stomach. He pushes the food around on his plate, catches sight of Henry’s brow wrinkling together in concern. Scooping up a large bite of potatoes and steak, he shovels it in his mouth and chews mechanically. Can’t very well not eat the food he’s already put on his plate, and if he keeps his mind off the nausea rolling through his gut then everything will be just fine.

“How was fishing?” he asks around a full mouth because the best distraction is to keep talking and nothing bores quite like a fishing story.

Henry raises an eyebrow, like he can’t quite believe Shawn just asked him that, but after a moment of searching Shawn’s expression he calmly launches into a long and detailed account of his day. Shawn nods in all the appropriate spots, makes a few expected sarcastic comments, but mostly he focuses on just chewing.

And if he throws up most of it later then no one has to know.

*

Shawn solves four cases in as many days. He’s on a roll, he’s found his groove, and he’s totally fine.

He’s fine, Gus is fine, everyone is fine. It’s one big circle of fineness.

Shawn is starting to hate the word fine. Starting to hate being asked if he’s okay. Starting to hate the sense of dread that fills him every time he smiles and says, “Of course. I’m always fine.”

It’s starting to feel heavy, the word fine. And the smile he summons every time he says it is starting to feel false. But he perseveres because that’s how this works. He buries the memories, he doesn’t think about it. He goes about his life, he talks and he jokes, and he solves cases. He fakes it until he makes it, because he _will_ make it.

He’s fine, Gus is fine, everyone is fine. It’s one big circle of fineness.

Only, Shawn is starting to feel like maybe he’s no longer in it.

*

“Has Shawn seemed…weird at all to you this week?” Juliet asks.

The psychic and his partner have just left, Gus physically dragging a loudly protesting Shawn from the station after Lassiter refused to hire them for another case. If she listens closely she can still hear Shawn shouting from outside, “You threw off my groove, Lassie! You threw off my groove!”

“Spencer?” Lassiter says. “He’s always weird.”

“But more weird,” Juliet pushes. Because Shawn has been acting normal, but he’s been almost _too_ normal. Excessively normal. He’s always been loud and obnoxious and ridiculously overdramatic, but he’s been over the top the last week, practically manic at times, almost like he’s over compensating. Juliet’s actually kind of worried about Shawn, and from some of the looks she’s caught Gus giving his best friend, he is too.

Lassiter sits back in his desk chair, rotating to face her fully as he ponders her question. She knows that, despite his overt rivalry with Shawn, Lassiter is concerned over the psychic’s odd behavior in the past week as well. Whether he will admit it or not Shawn’s reaction after Lassiter took down the perp in that basement had rattled him. It had rattled Juliet, the way Shawn hadn’t responded at all to her and continued to seem out of it even after Lassiter had gained his attention. Surprisingly Gus had been far more with it than Shawn, but Juliet supposes almost getting shot in the head will do that to a person.

“You said it yourself,” Lassiter says finally, shaking Juliet from her thoughts of Shawn and Gus in the basement. “He’s coping.”

“Is he?” Juliet asks.

“Spencer’s strong,” Lassiter says with a curt nod, and it’s odd to hear such words of praise for the psychic from the head detective. “Resilient like a cockroach. He’ll be fine.”

Juliet can only hope he’s right.

 

**Two**

Shawn’s tied to a chair. The zip ties dig into his wrists, the florescent lights burn his eyes, and the air is musty. It’s always, always, always musty. The stale air rushes achingly through his nose to his lungs, scraping painfully along his nasal passageways.

In the corner water drips, an ever steady and ever present dripping.

“What’s the chance, Shawn?”

Frederick’s voice echoes around the room, sliding through the cracks in the walls and wrapping around Shawn like a vice, squeezing and squeezing until Shawn can’t breathe.

“Tell me the chance, Shawn.”

Gus is there too, tied to his own chair across from Shawn. His hands twist uselessly, blood raining to the floor below him, and his eyes are terrifyingly wide. Frederick materializes behind him, grinning wickedly as his arm encircles Gus’ chest, Colt coming to rest against the back of Gus’ head. It’s barely visible to Shawn, but he knows it’s there all the same.

“Please,” he whispers, “please, don’t.”

“Just tell me the chance, Shawn.”

But Shawn doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how many bullets are in the chamber or what turn they’re on. He doesn’t know anything.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“I thought you were psychic,” Frederick says. “I thought you saw all and knew all. Guess we’ll just have to find out the old fashion way.”

The hammer clicks back and Gus screams through the gag, struggling anew against his bonds. Shawn yanks against his own, but he can’t yell, can’t scream, can’t force any sound past the lump in his throat.

“Three,” Frederick says with a twisted smile.

Shawn chokes, lungs burning and room restricting around him.

“Two.”

Gus is staring at him. Staring, staring, staring. And Shawn can’t breathe.

“One.”

The word is barely a whisper compared to the loud crack of the shot.

*

Shawn wakes with a scream in his throat, wiping frantically at blood on his face that isn’t really there.

He stumbles to the bathroom anyway splashing ice-cold water over his face for several minutes as he tries to calm his racing heart and catch his breath. The face that meets his when he stares at the mirror is haggard and looks nothing like he remembers. It’s disheartening and Shawn has to resist the urge to smash his fist into the glass.

It’s a strong urge. A burning and deep-seated need to lash out, to hurt, to break. Wrapped up in a useless sense of helplessness in the wake of yet another nightmare about that godforsaken basement that still plagues him night after night. It thrums through him, fiery hot and irritating.

He loses the battle in the end, but it doesn’t really matter. He’ll just wear one of his overly large sweatshirts, and it’s not like anyone comes into his apartment to see the bathroom. He’ll clean the glass up later. If he feels like it.

*

“What happened to your hand?” Juliet asks.

Shawn hums and absently tugs the sleeve of his sweatshirt down over his hands concealing the shoddy bandage beginning to show spots of blood wrapped around his left. “Nothing. Slipped on the pier and caught myself. No big.”

Juliet frowns, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows. “Don’t people normally catch themselves with the heel of their hand?” she says. “Not their knuckles?”

“Since when have you known me to be normal, Jules?” Shawn says with a blinding smile. It stretches across his face forced and painful. “I’m just talented enough to do everything backwards because I’m awesome.”

“Sure,” she agrees still with that annoying look of concern. “You should maybe have it looked at.”

Shawn doesn’t think so, is actually enjoying the small flares of pain every time he flexes his hand or the bandage pulls. It helps, he thinks, to manage the tightly wound mess of feelings inside him, and he’s found himself on more than one occasion lightly pressing along his knuckles just to feel the bone deep ache that comes from slamming your fist into something.

“Don't worry,” he says curling his hand into a fist, feeling the skin and half formed scabs pull, “I will.”

What’s one more lie?

*

“It’s the maid!” Shawn announces, waltzing through the station with Gus by his side. The detectives’ desks are empty and he comes to a stop with a small frown.

“Maybe they’re at lunch,” Gus suggests, and Shawn narrows his eyes noting the steaming cup of coffee on Lassiter’s desk.

“What’s the maid?” Lassiter says from right behind Shawn’s shoulder. Shawn jerks, flinching away and running into Gus as he whips around eyeing the head detective with surprise. Lassiter actually looks contrite, a shadow of something passing over his expression. For a moment Shawn thinks the man might actually apologize to him, and the idea sends a burst of anger rushing through him.

“Your case,” he replies extricating himself from Gus. “It’s the maid.”

Lassiter shakes his head with a sigh. “It’s not the maid.”

“Well, of course it is,” Shawn says, internally reviewing all the facts he’d gleaned about Lassie’s current case. “I’m always right.”

“It’s not the maid because she’s dead,” Lassiter says bluntly. “And no, Shawn, you’re not always right.”

Shawn doesn’t know what it is, the tone or maybe Lassiter’s use of his first name, but the words hit hard. He swallows heavily and says nothing as Lassiter settles down at the desk poring over the file as he sips methodically at his coffee. Gus is silent by Shawn’s shoulder, a solid and heavy presence that should be reassuring but instead feels suffocating.

He’s missed something again. It’s certainly not the first time he’s missed something, but for some reason it bothers him more this time around.

*

“Your hands are shaking,” Henry observes.

Shawn drops his spoon into the bowl and snatches his hand away. Not the most subtle response to his father’s comment, but clearly Henry has already noticed the fine tremors running through Shawn’s hands so it doesn’t matter anyway.

Shawn doesn’t know exactly what set it off this time, but the shaking had started up earlier today when he’d incorrectly identified a suspect in the murdered trophy wife slash maid case. Again.

On second thought, he knows exactly what set it off. Being proved wrong once again has something to do with it, but mostly it was the looks of concern and pity on Jules’ and Lassie’ faces.

“Shawn.”

“It’s fine,” Shawn lies hiding his hands beneath the table and pulling the cuffs of his sweatshirt down over them for good measure. “Just low blood sugar or something.”

“We just ate,” Henry points out, and, yeah, that had been a pretty poor excuse.

“I’m just tired,” he tries instead, and that, at least, is true. He’s exhausted, which, now that he thinks about it, might have something to do with both the shaking and the terrible observations he’s been making lately.

Henry hums, redirecting his attention to clearing off the table. “Trouble sleeping?”

“A little,” Shawn admits digging his nails in along the bandage still wrapped around his left hand. It takes more effort than it had a few days ago, but he can still summon up a flash of pain if he presses hard enough.

“You know, talking to someone might help,” Henry says standing to gather dishes and Shawn stifles down a laugh.

“Really?” he asks. “You can say that to me?”

“Don’t do that, Shawn,” Henry says leaning against the counter with a sigh. “There are things you should talk to a therapist about and things you shouldn’t. This is something that falls in the should.”

Shawn rests an elbow on the table, kneading at his temple. He has a headache that’s been building since before his hands starting shaking, and dinner with his dad has done nothing to tone it down.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he protests.

“With me or with someone else?”

Shawn scrubs his hand over his forehead. “With anyone.”

“You need to talk to someone,” Henry repeats. “To a professional, to me, to Gus. Talk to Gus. He was there with you, Shawn.”

Shawn doesn’t need the reminder. He remembers. He remembers everything so he knows perfectly well Gus was there with him. The thing is, though, that doesn’t make it any easier to talk to him about it. In fact, it almost makes it worse because while Shawn kind of feels stuck in moving past the whole almost shot in a basement thing, Gus seems to be well and truly over it already.

Gus is acting the same as always. He talks with the same amount of fervor, eats with the same amount of gusto, and, after the first couple days, sleeps just as well as ever. If anything he actually seems a little better off, moving through his life with a new sort of appreciation and confidence that only comes from making it out alive from a near death experience.

“I’m fine,” he says when he realizes Henry is watching him expectantly. That prompts a frown and look of disapproval so he amends it with, “But I’ll talk to Gus, okay?”

He won’t, but if it will get Henry off his back Shawn will promise just about anything.

*

Shawn doesn’t talk to Gus. Shawn doesn’t need to because he’s fine. In fact, Shawn is doing great. Shawn is a-okay and just friggin’ peachy. Really, he is.

Except for the random tremors and headaches.

And the nightmares.

And the fact that he avoids rooms with no windows and florescent lighting like the plague, which is easier said than done when one considers he spends a fair amount of time at the police department.

And the fact that his perfect fucking recall means he can still hear Frederick hissing in his ear like it was only two seconds ago instead of coming up on three weeks.

But, yeah, Shawn’s fine.

 

**Three**

"Shawn, come on," Gus hisses. "They're getting away."

Shawn hears him, he does, but for some reason his feet are rooted to the ground and his heart is fluttering somewhere up around his throat. His stomach rolls threateningly, and Gus tugs on his arm again.

"Shawn!"

Shawn hears him, he does, but he also hears Frederick whispering in his ear, _What's the chance, Shawn? What's the chance?_

And he doesn't _know_. He doesn't know what the chance is, he doesn't know what will happen if he and Gus go through that door. A month ago such an unknown wouldn't have mattered, but right now the possibility _terrifies_ him.

And the fact that he's terrified terrifies him, because Shawn Spencer does not do terrified.

Yet here he is, rooted to the ground while Gus is prepared to run after the bad guys.

A siren wails in the not too distant distance, and an almost tangible wave of relief rolls over him. The boys and girls in blue are on their way, which means Shawn doesn't need to go inside. Gus settles, hanging back with Shawn as several black and whites peel into the lot, sirens piercing through the evening air. Lassiter's maroon Crown Vic brings up the rear, and for just a moment Shawn meets his gaze as the head detective steps from the car. It's over in a flash, Lassiter and Juliet heading the raid into the building. Shawn watches them disappear inside with a sickening feeling of trepidation.

It feels like forever but can't be more than several minutes before they're coming back out, all four suspects cuffed securely. Shawn lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and leans against the car for support. His legs aren't anchored to the ground anymore, but they kind of feel like jelly. When he drags his gaze away from Jules and the others Gus is staring at him with an unreadable expression.

"What?" he asks pleased he manages to keep the shakiness he feels in his bones from showing in his voice.

Gus looks like he's deliberating with himself for a moment but finally says, "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You froze," Gus says.

Shawn forces a chuckle. "Don't be absurd, Gus. I didn't freeze. I just experienced an unexpected—"

"Shawn," Gus interrupts, "you froze."

Shawn glares at him and stomps around the car, sliding into his seat and slamming door shut.

"Shawn," Gus starts sliding into the driver's seat.

"I can't do this with you right now," Shawn says.

Gus sighs but falls silent. They don't talk the whole way back to the office because there's nothing to say. It’s a fluke, nothing more. It won’t happen again.

*

“Has he talked to you at all?” Henry asks tiredly, weary head cradled between equally weary hands.

Gus shakes his head still staring at the door Shawn had just stormed off through. “No, at least not about that. He…he talks a lot, but whenever I try to bring Frederick or the basement up, hell if I so much as allude to it, he just shuts down.”

Henry sighs, scrubs his hands over his face like he’d expected nothing more. “Why am I not surprised,” he murmurs.

“I take it he hasn’t talked to you either, then?”

“Of course not,” Henry says with a self-deprecating snort. “The last serious thing Shawn actually talked to me about was how to talk to girls when he was thirteen.”

“I don’t remember him ever reacting to anything like this,” Gus admits. “I’m worried.”

Henry sighs again leaning back in his chair. “You’re not the only one.”

*

Panic attacks, Shawn quickly decides, are just about the worst thing ever.

He’s no stranger to them; has had more than his fair share during his thirty odd years of life. Being a naturally high-strung individual with a mind that remembers everything will do that to a person. Over the years he’s become quite adept at heading them off and working his way through them.

He can recognize the warning signs, knows when to back off and take some down time, and knows how to let the anxiety roll over and off him with nary more than a grimace. It’s been years since he’s last had a full blown panic attack, but he still remembers how they go. The shortness of breath, the tunneling vision, the tremors and numbness, the frantic pounding of his heart. None of it is a new experience.

But the thing about panic attacks is that it doesn’t matter if he’s having his first one or his twenty-third. He still feels like he’s about to die.

*

Carlton is loath to admit it but he’s actually concerned about the self-proclaimed psychic. He’s starting to look a little frayed around the edges. Starting to act a little manic. More than usual at any rate.

With every false smile and forced chipper word, Carlton thinks back to that basement and the way Shawn struggled to breathe, to wrap his mind around the fact that he wasn’t dead. Thinks back to how long it had taken Carlton to calm him down and convince him of his and Guster’s safety.

Spencer’s far from the first person Carlton’s encountered in shock after something traumatic, but he is somewhat surprised at the lasting impact the experience seems to be having. For all that Carlton likes to list Spencer’s faults, one thing he admires in the other man is his astounding resilience in the face of utter failure and set backs in a case to being threatened and held at gunpoint. After the amount of attempts on Spencer’s life since he started taking cases with the SBPD, Carlton wonders what is so different about Frederick and the basement that this experience seems to be haunting Spencer in a way all the others haven’t.

He can’t quite pin down a reason, wonders if perhaps it’s just a cumulative effect and the man’s just finally cracked under pressure, and thinks that maybe it doesn’t even really matter. Shawn’s playing at being fine, and until he stops there isn’t really anything they can do.

*

It takes Shawn completely by surprise.

It shouldn't but it does.

One moment everything is fine, he's laughing with Buzz at Lassie wearing red frosting on his nose like a disgruntled Rudolph, and the next there's an earsplitting crack and something like unbridled panic slams into him. All the air rushes from his lungs and he flinches hard enough he actually takes a step back.

It's gone as quick as it came, bleeding out of him to leave him weak and shaking as soon as he realizes it wasn't a gunshot. It was just a stupid popping balloon. Buzz hasn't noticed Shawn's reaction, having turned towards the sharp sound like any good cop should, so Shawn schools his expression into one of subtle surprise, smoothing away all traces of panic by the time anyone actually looks at him.

The panic is still there, thrumming through him loosely and everything feels just a tad off for the rest of the party. The lights are too bright, his laugh is too loud, everyone else seems more muted, and if he concentrates hard enough he can smell mildew and coconut. It’s wholly disconcerting and the rest of the small get together passes in a kaleidoscope blur of images with him balancing precariously on the edge of a proverbial precipice.

No one asks him if he’s okay though, so Shawn must be doing something right. And if he quietly falls apart as soon as he's alone, lungs aching for air and heart hammering agonizingly in his chest, for the fifth time that week it's no one's business but his own.

 

**Four**

The thing about not sleeping is it makes him pretty irritable. Lowers his tolerance for things that wouldn't normally bother him. Shortens his fuse so he can go from happy to pissed off in about an eighth of the time it usually takes. He exists in a constant never-ending state of just on the verge of furious.

The thing about not sleeping is he's so tired he doesn't actually feel tired anymore. Like a defense mechanism the brain twists everything around until he's convinced he isn't tired. The world exists in hyper-focus and its normal for the world to feel so far away that he's not even a part of it anymore.

The thing about not sleeping is that, at some point, he stops realizing he isn’t.

*

“When was the last time you got a good night of sleep, Shawn?” Gus asks suddenly.

The use of his name jerks his focus back to the room instead of the pier outside where his attention had wandered sometime in the last three seconds. Shawn frowns, blinking as he forces his mind to think back and recall the rest of Gus’ question. It takes more time and effort than it rightly should even if he hadn’t been actively listening.

“Hm?” he says to buy himself some time to concoct a convincing lie. Gus won’t be easy to fool, not when he spends eighty percent of most of his days with Shawn and knows Shawn’s sleep schedule is pretty much shot to shit at the moment.

“Sleep, Shawn,” Gus says. “When’s the last time you actually got any?”

“Ah, last night,” Shawn says. “You know, like a normal person, I sleep every night.”

“Really?” Gus asks sounding particularly unconvinced. He looks pretty unconvinced too; Shawn must be losing his touch. Or maybe it’s because Shawn’s kind of starting to look like a sick raccoon which kind of pisses him off because he hates those things. “You look like death warmed over, and I’m not an idiot.”

“I take offence to that,” Shawn says deciding he has a right to be offended even if it’s true. Gus doesn’t need to point it out like that. People looking like sleep deprived zombies deserve some modicum of discreetness. Like when your coworker shows up with an overly large hickey; sometimes it’s just best not to bring stuff up. On second thought, that’s a bad example because Shawn would be all over the appearance of an overly large hickey on any of the people he works with, Gus included. Jules and Lassie too. Probably not Vick and definitely not his father. He would run so far and fast from his father’s hickeys.

“Shawn?”

“What?” he reflexively returns. He tries to reign his focus back in again, frowning when he actually can’t remember if Gus said anything before his name. The expression on his best friend’s face suggests that he has indeed missed something.

Gus sighs. “Go home.”

“Why?”

“It’s five o’clock. Go home, get some sleep. I’ll finish up here.”

Shawn laughs, ignores the slightly hysterical edge to it. “I couldn’t stick you with all the work,” he says and realizes a second too late that it’s the entirely _wrong_ thing to say. Gus frowns, brows creased in concern, and Shawn really kind of wants to punch him in the face.

“Why can’t you sleep?" Gus asks like the perceptive bastard he is. "Are you having bad insomnia again?”

Anger and shame bloom hit in his chest and some part of Shawn hates that Gus even knows about that right now. Hates that Gus knows him well enough to notice that something is wrong in spite of how much Shawn is working to hide it, hates that Gus won’t let him get away with half-truths and white lies, hates that he’s angry at Gus because it’s not fair and it’s making everything harder.

“Or do you not want to sleep? Is it nightmares?”

“I’m not having fucking nightmares,” Shawn snaps dropping his feet from his desk to the floor with a resounding thud. “And I’m sleeping just fine, okay?” His heart’s hammering in his chest, skin tingling like he’s near a live wire, a suffocating feeling of dread pricking at him from all directions.

Gus looks taken aback, mouth slack like Shawn’s outburst is the last thing he expected. The air of the room is charged, silence reigning until Shawn licks his lips, forces his tone back into a semblance of civil and says, “I don’t need you mother henning me. I can take care of myself.”

At that Gus scoffs, shaking his head like Shawn is the world’s biggest idiot as he stands and snatches his bag from the floor. “Sure you can. I'm going home. You should too.”

Shawn watches him leave without a word, steadfastly refuses to acknowledge the creeping sense of anxiety that comes with being alone lately. Part of him wants to follow Gus out and another part wants to just go home, but yet another part dreads both those options and keeps him rooted at his desk under the pretense of actually finishing his work.

His paperwork is shit because the letters keep swimming in front of his eyes, but at the end of the evening it’s done and Shawn doesn’t actually care.

*

There's a line from one of Shakespeare's plays that Shawn's been thinking about lately. Slightly adjusted to fit him it goes something like this: the lad doth protest too much, methinks.

And how sad that a _Hamlet_ quote now applies so directly to his life. But denial is a fickle thing; and the more one denies the more one becomes painfully aware of the object of said denial.

Shawn stares up at his ceiling, a thousand and one thoughts racing through his mind. He doesn’t know when the not sleeping became can’t sleep. Doesn’t know when the restless energy buzzing through him at all hours of the night became the norm over struggling to not fall asleep.

He doesn’t much care either, anything is preferable to being trapped back in that basement. He shudders just thinking about it, reflexively summoning up memories of nightmares and reality, blending it all together until he’s not entirely sure which is which, what’s real and what’s a product of overwrought imagination.

He hates them but doesn't know how to make them stop, not completely anyway. Sleeping pills will knock him out, but they won’t stop the dreams and just keep him from waking up. Alcohol smothers the nightmares but not completely, and he just wakes up sick and even crankier the next day. Harder drugs wouldn’t be the answer even if he could get his hands on some and thought he could get away with it without Gus or his dad noticing. That he knows from experience; they’d be more likely to exacerbate the issue than anything.

Which leaves him staring blankly at the ceiling while waiting for his alarm to go off. It’s working. Mostly.

*

"You're not okay, Shawn," Henry says crossing his arms and daring Shawn to contradict him.

Old habits and new hurts have Shawn scowling as he pushes his chair back from the table just to gain some distance between them. "I'm fine," he says shortly hoping that’ll be the end of it. Of course, Henry being Henry, it isn’t.

His father sighs, drawn out and put upon in a way that rattles Shawn’s already strung nerves. "I've let you run around and avoid this for a month,” Henry says, a touch of anger and reproach filtering into his tone. “Gus told me you still haven't called that therapist—"

“I don’t need to see a therapist,” Shawn says and even to him the words sound worn and tired, repeated so often lately they’ve practically lost all meaning.

“Why are you so resistant to the idea of talking to someone?” Henry demands voice climbing in octaves with each word. “Why can’t you just admit, Shawn, that you need some goddamn help!”

"Because I'm fine!" Shawn shouts feeling cornered in a way he doesn't want to address. The carefully constructed fragile walls in his head keeping Frederick and that godforsaken basement buried are crumbling as they speak. But he denies the destruction like the perfect problem avoider he is and viciously spits, "I don't need to go to fucking therapy."

It might be a little petty but he’s proud of the fact that he’s never been to therapy despite the number of horror shows he’s been in the front row of and now has permanently etched in his brain. He’s proud of the fact that, in spite of all the shit he’s seen, he’s always been able to deal with it on his own. He certainly does _not_ want to go talk to a stranger about said horror shows permanently etched in his brain. He puts too much effort into carefully pretending to forget those things to fuck it up by talking about them.

"Really?" Henry asks completely unfazed by the venom in Shawn's voice, his own tone still a little harsh. He also sounds completely patronizing. "Then maybe you'd like to explain what happened at the station last week."

He doesn't have to specify what he's talking about; both he and Shawn know _exactly_ what he's referring to. That doesn't mean Shawn can't try and play dumb though. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says pushing farther back from the table to stand.

Henry snorts before the words are even fully out of Shawn’s mouth. "That's bullshit. But let me refresh your memory. You were talking to Buzz, a balloon drifted too close to one of the lights, it popped. And what did you do?"

The vague feeling of panic is back, fluttering in his chest and making his breaths go shallow. Shawn stamps down on it and sneers, "I don't recall. Enlighten me."

Henry's expression softens. It's weird enough to twist the fluttering panic into something more concrete. Something heavy and sour that sits low in his stomach. He snatches his plate from the table turning so he can't see his father's face anymore. Half of his meal is on his plate still but dumping it in the garbage would require him to turn around and see that _look_ again so he stands motionless in front of the sink.

"You flinched," Henry says so gently Shawn kind of wants to throw the plate at him consequences be damned. Maybe it would get Henry to yell instead of acting like Shawn is some kicked puppy.

"I was startled," he retorts. "Didn't know that was a crime."

There's a beat of silence then, "I've seen you startled, kid. That wasn't it."

"Didn't know you were such an expert." He's scathing, spitting out the words on autopilot, trying to throw off any indication of how much Henry's assessment is getting to him.

"I've never seen you flinch like that," Henry says still in that infuriatingly gentle tone like Shawn is some kind of spooked horse that needs to be handled with the utmost care. And that seals the deal.

Shawn drops his plate in the sink, barely registering the clattering of ceramic as he flees from the kitchen. If his father is going to treat him like a frightened animal, Shawn may as well act like one.

 

**Five**

Shawn jerks awake, blinking rapidly at the bright light of his desk lamp and cracking his elbow off the paper organizer. It clatters to the floor, sharp pains arcing up his arm as he tries to get his bearings. It takes him a moment to recognize the room around him as the Psych office instead of a basement. It takes another moment to calm the racing of his heart to something more manageable. It takes yet another moment to keep his itching fingers from seizing his phone and pressing the speed dial for Gus.

He wants to; wants to reassure himself that Gus is sleeping perfectly safe in his apartment and not lying cold and dead with a hole through his brain in a basement. But calling Gus would just alert the other man to one more reason why Shawn isn’t okay, and he really doesn’t want to endure another rant about his wellbeing.

Scrubbing at his eyes Shawn lets out a shaky breath. The files he’d been reviewing earlier are strewn across his desk a small damp spot in the center of one of the papers. The words on the pages swim in front of his eyes, and Shawn gathers them all into a pile. Clearly he isn’t getting any more work done tonight, and he’s still tired enough he might fall asleep again if he doesn’t get up and move around.

He closes up shop, locking the door securely behind him as he leaves. The morning air is a bit chilly and Shawn pulls the collar of his jacket up as he scans the horizon. The sun is just beginning to rise in the east, the sky lightening noticeably into a pale early morning blue. A glance at his watch confirms the time to be just after six; enough time for Shawn to get home, change, grab something in breakfast, and be back at the office by the time Gus rolls in around eight.

The hour or so of sleep he got will have to be enough because Shawn’s not sleeping again any time soon if he can help it. Each of his forays into La La Land lately have ended with him screaming himself awake with a host of new terrors in his head.

The nightmares might actually be the worst part, Shawn thinks. If he could just sleep then maybe he’d be able to deal with everything else.

But he can't so he isn't.

*

“What have we got?” Shawn asks without any of his usual flare ducking under the yellow crime scene tape Gus faithfully by his side.

The detectives glance up at them, Juliet’s eyes briefly clouding with worry. “Shawn, you look aw—”

“Awesomely fantastic, I know,” Shawn says blithely ignoring the look of incredulity on Lassiter’s face and Gus’ expression of disapproval. “I’m having a great hair day. Now, who’s dead?”

Shawn crouches by the body scanning it and the crime scene with a trained eye. Male, early thirties, dark hair, fair skin. Hands bound behind his back, handcuffed actually. Tailored suit suggests businessman. If it weren’t for the bound hands Shawn would say this is a mugging.

“No ID,” Lassie says when Juliet remains silent. “John Doe for now. No witnesses. Gunshot was heard around seven this morning. Single shot to the back of the head, execution style.”

“Execution,” Shawn repeats hollowly as the bottom of his stomach drops out, gaze unwillingly dragged to focus on the blood pooling beneath the head. He sucks in a careful breath. “Um.”

“Shawn?” Juliet asks and she sounds far away.

Shawn can see it. The man forced to his knees, hands cuffed behind his back, the gun placed against his head. The trigger pulled. Execution style. Three, two, one, bang, and dead.

“Spencer, what is it?”

His head is swimming, pounding with the persistent headache that’s been plaguing him since this morning, and he kneads at his eyes shaking his head to dispel the phantom voice echoing in his mind. The motion causes the dizziness sweeping over him to increase. He swallows thickly wishing suddenly that he’d managed to eat more than half a bagel for breakfast.

 _Three,_ Frederick whispers.

“Are you having a vision?”

"Shawn?"

 _Two_.

Shawn wants to laugh, wants the world to stop. He twists to his feet stumbling when his vision tunnels, black encroaching on the edges. Someone shouts his name, and someone grabs him before he hits the ground. But the last thing he hears in Frederick’s voice crooning in his ear.

 _One_.

*

“You’re going to sleep if I have to drug you and tie you to the bed,” Gus snaps. Shawn’s fainting spell at the crime scene earlier has spooked him, and Shawn barely managed to talk the other man out of dragging him to the hospital. Shawn assented to staying the night with Gus instead, which is how Shawn found himself standing in Gus’ living room while Gus declared bondage a suitable alternative to a hospital visit.

Shawn absorbs the words for a moment, unable to stop the rush of panic that races through him. Outwardly, though, he smirks and says, “Kinky, Gus. I didn’t know I was your type.”

Gus doesn’t seem to be in the mood for it apparently because all he does is roll his eyes and bodily drag Shawn into his bedroom.

“So your plan is to tie me to the bed so you can have your wicked way with me?” Shawn pushes desperate for a reaction that will let him storm out without making Gus even more suspicious. “You already drugged me, didn’t you? Let me guess, it was in the pie!”

"We didn't even _have_ pie," Gus says rummaging through his dresser and a second later a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt smack Shawn squarely in the face cutting off his second guess to where the drugs had been hidden. The clothing falls to the floor with a distinct slap of fabric and Gus just stares at him with a challenging look of discontent.

“Well,” Gus prompts waving an expectant hand. “Get dressed.”

Shawn slowly bends down to gather the pants and shirt. “What? You just gonna stand there and watch?”

“I’m not going to risk you running out on me,” Gus says crossly.

Shawn holds the clothes to him like a shield and scowls. “Then guard the fucking door,” he snaps. “At least let me change in peace.”

Gus frowns but obligingly moves to leave the room. “No sneaking down the fire escape,” he says giving Shawn a pointed look. “It screeches to high heaven and I will beat you to the bottom.”

Shawn waves a hand and takes a moment to just breathe once Gus has left the room. His skin feels itchy, like something unpleasant is boiling up from beneath. He tries to shake it off as he strips down, dropping his clothes to the floor in a way he knows will annoy the ever-living hell out of Gus; perhaps he’s feeling a little petty. Gus’ pants are a little long and the shirt is snug across his shoulders, but the clothes are comfortable enough.

Gus gives him a few more moments before coming back in. Shawn watches him long enough to catch the slight tightening around his eyes when he sees Shawn’s clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor, and then slinks off to the bathroom just outside when Gus says nothing. He brushes his teeth for the recommended full two minutes, and Gus is still standing silently in the doorway when he finishes. Shawn ignores him, sidling past and clambering onto the bed. He makes a show of getting comfortable, disrupting all Gus’ blankets because, seriously, who can sleep with their feet trapped to the mattress like that? Once settled, he sends Gus a pointed look, switches the lamp off and burrows beneath the blankets.

He holds his breath, lying perfectly still and waiting for Gus to leave. He waits for several tense minutes before he hears Gus coming further into the room. The lamp switches back on and a chair slides across the floor. Shawn throws the blankets back eyeing Gus suspiciously. His friend has pulled up a chair beside the bed and looks like he’s settling in for the long haul, feet propped on the edge of the bed and book settled in his lap.

“What are you doing?” Shawn asks.

Gus shrugs, turning a page in his book idly like it’s not entirely weird for him to be there. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Invading my personal space,” Shawn suggests, and Gus just snorts. “I thought you wanted me to sleep?”

“I’m staying with you while you sleep,” Gus says calmly. “I’ll wake you up if you start to have a nightmare.”

Shawn’s heart stutters, something painful clenching in his chest. “Gus,” he says and his voice sounds a little shaky, “don’t be the creepy vampire from Nightfall.”

“It’s Twilight, Shawn,” Gus corrects, gaze trained on his book.

“I’ve heard it both ways,” Shawn says softly. “And I don’t need you to watch me.” That gets Gus to look up at him.

“Are you really going to sleep if I’m not here?” Gus asks, tone blunt. Shawn won’t. He knows it. Gus knows it.

Gus says nothing as Shawn rolls over, burying himself back beneath the blankets. It’s hot, stuffy and uncomfortable, but he can’t stand looking at Gus right now. Can’t stand the idea of Gus looking at him, even if it’s only the back of his head.

The room is silent except for the sound of their breaths and the soft rustle as Gus turns a page every few minutes. It’s stifling and Shawn misses the distracting sound of mindless television programs or late-night talk shows on the radio. He stays still staring at the blanket two inches from his face, coiled tense on the bed and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep like this either.

Abruptly Gus clears his throat and Shawn jumps. He curls in tighter on himself immediately after hoping that Gus somehow missed his reaction. If Gus didn’t, he still doesn’t comment, only beginning to read aloud quietly.

Shawn wants to snap at him. He’s not a child; he doesn’t need read to sleep like a toddler. But the words stick in his throat and doing so would require facing Gus again. So he says nothing and just lets Gus’ voice wash over him.

*

“Mr. Spencer,” Vick says in surprise. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Shawn forces a fleeting smile, tries not the fidget lest the chief get suspicious. He rubs his hands together before burying them in the pockets of his borrowed jeans. “I, uh, I just need to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Vick says sitting back in her chair and giving Shawn her full attention. “What is it?”

“I’m…taking some time off,” Shawn says and Vick actually looks a little shocked for a moment before her eyebrows crease in concern. “So I won’t be taking any cases for a while.”

“Mr. Spencer,” the chief starts something like worry shining in her eyes.

“I just need some personal time,” Shawn says speaking over her and closing his eyes to block out the chief and the station. It's too much anymore. Shawn can't focus, can't work, can't get out from beneath this fog smothering him. “I’ll let you know when Psych is taking cases again.”

“Okay,” Vick says after a moment. “How long do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

 

**Six**

“Shawn is not okay,” Juliet says worry coloring every word.

Gus nods slowly, heart aching with the truth of her words. “I know.”

“He passed out at a crime scene. He shut down Psych. He needs help.”

“I know.”

“Gus—”

“I know, Juliet, I know.”

*

“You don’t fucking get it!” Shawn yells words punching out of him with little permission on his part. “None of you get it!”

Gus isn't supposed to be here. He showed up out of nowhere this morning,  banging on Shawn's door until he was grudgingly let in. It'd taken less than five minutes for their awkward conversation to descend into an argument, Gus pushing too hard and too fast and Shawn feeling to raw to be anything but defensive.

He’s operating in fight or flight, and for the moment he’s fighting but underneath his body’s kicking into flight mode. He can feel the panic creeping up on him again, building up under his skin, and he's lashing out like a wounded animal, doing his very best to get Gus to just leave so he can fall apart without an audience.

“Well maybe we’d _start_ getting it,” Gus snaps accusing finger jabbing in Shawn’s direction, “if you’d bother to fucking talk to any us.”

He's angry. Angrier than Shawn can ever remember him getting regardless of all the shit Shawn's ever pulled on him in the past and it scares Shawn. It scares him to realize that Gus is actually angry at _him_ , because Gus is supposed to be the one that sticks by him no matter what. But Shawn's spent the last few weeks pushing Gus as far away as possible and it's finally working. He should be happy, but instead something twists in his chest that isn't supposed to move and he just feels like crying. 

“Get out,” Shawn says because Gus needs to leave _now_. He reaches out to shove Gus away before thinking better of it and taking two steps the opposite direction instead. He’s far to keyed up to want any contact even if it’s initiated by him. “Get out. Now!”

Gus closes his eyes, visibly collecting himself before speaking with forced calmness. “Shawn, you need help—”

“I don’t need help! I need you to leave me the fuck alone!” Shawn shouts seizing the glass from the counter and hurling it at the wall past Gus’ head. "Get out!"

The glass shatters on impact, Gus instinctively ducking away. He’s glaring once he emerges from behind his arms, a look of complete and utter shock plastered across his face.

“Fine,” he grinds out. “You want to be a stubborn asshole and suffer. Go ahead.” He’s out the door in seconds, slamming it shut behind him hard enough that the walls rattle.

The force of it seems to reverberate through Shawn’s chest, shaking loose any last vestiges of control he’s fooled himself into thinking he has.

It hits him in seconds, siphoning off all his air and leaving him shaking against the counter. Tears pool in his eyes and his lungs burn to the point of agony. It's worse than he's ever felt before and he stumbles for the bathroom as he tries every trick he knows to try and calm down.

He feels ridiculous but he’s simultaneously praying for Gus to walk back in and stay gone. He never wants Gus to know that he’s gasping for air crumbled against the godforsaken cabinets but he also thinks he might be dying and having another person with him would be a welcome comfort.

It’s probably too much to hope for at this point.

*

Gus can remember being really angry with Shawn approximately fifty-three times in his life. After thirty odd years of friendship that’s kind of impressive, and the number is usually a source of pride between the two of them. Gus can also remember fighting with Shawn a lot more than that without any real anger over trivial things. In thirty years they’ve fought and reconciled so many times, Gus is pretty sure there’s nothing that could shake the rock solid foundation of their friendship.

Right now though, Gus can’t remember ever being angrier. And that kind of scares him a little. But he’s angry and scared for both himself and Shawn, and he kind of hates that too. He wants to be sitting in Shawn’s apartment with curly fries and milkshakes watching television not storming out of Shawn’s apartment nearly shaking with rage and chest aching with too many emotions to name. Helplessness is one, Gus thinks, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he leans back against the door. Frustration and fear. Regret.

Five seconds after the fact and part of him is clamoring to apologize for his harsh words to Shawn. Another part says it might be best if they both had time to cool down; that both of them are too charged to have anything resembling a productive conversation right now. And if he walks back into that room with Shawn all that will happen is more words they’ll both need to recover from afterwards.

Gus is an empathetic person, he’s always been able to understand where Shawn is coming from in his words and his actions even if it didn’t seem to make any sort of actual sense. That’s part of the reason he and Shawn have been able to remain such close friends all these years, because Gus _understands_.

He’s been struggling lately. Struggling to figure out what the hell Shawn’s thinking, and it’s pissing him off about as much as it’s scaring him. Wiping at his eyes—he’s a sympathetic crier, okay—he pushes off the door set on leaving like Shawn wants. Three steps later he halts, frowning at the sudden crash from behind Shawn’s door. Turning around he hesitates by the door, hand hovering over the knob as he wonders if something’s actually wrong of if Shawn is just throwing more dishes. He has half a mind to just walk away and let Shawn destroy his apartment if that’s what he wants to do.

There’s a niggling suspicion in the back of Gus’ mind though, one that says there’s something seriously wrong. One that says Gus absolutely needs to open the door. So he does, easing the door open and tentatively poking his head in, mindful of the possibility that more breakable things might be sailing towards his face.

The small apartment is empty and looking suspiciously abandoned; Shawn’s nowhere to be seen. Gus timidly inches his way into the apartment calling out, “Shawn?”

The worry pooling in his gut strengthens to all out dread as he makes his way over shattered ceramic and glass cautiously calling again for his friend. He can hear heavy breathing now, heaving gasps echoing from the bathroom where the door is pulled only partway closed as per the norm lately.

“Shawn?” Gus says softly giving the door a gentle push, bottom of his stomach falling out at the sight that greets him. The mirror above the sink is shattered, shards of glass swept carelessly away into a pile on the right side of the sink and spotted with dried blood. That hadn't happened recently and something sour clenches in his gut at the tangible proof of Shawn's distress in the past weeks.

Gus drags his gaze from the broken mirror to his friend. Shawn is pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest and hands tangled in his hair pulling intermittently. His breaths are even more noticeable now, ragged and harsh. As Gus watches Shawn gives his hair a particularly hard tug, knocking his head back against the wall with a low whine.

“Shawn,” Gus says moving forward as Shawn bangs his head against the wall again. “Shawn, stop, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Shawn’s eyes fly open when Gus touches him, startled in a way Gus has never seen him before. For all the times Shawn has managed to surprise Gus, he’s always been too observant for Gus to really return the favor. Realizing now how unaware Shawn had been of his presence does nothing to ease the concern he feels.

“Gus,” Shawn rasps clutching at Gus’ arm, and he cringes at the thought that he almost left Shawn to deal with this alone. “Gus, I can’t, I can’t breathe.”

“Hey,” Gus says pitching his tone low and calm even if he doesn't really feel it. “Hey, yes you can, okay? Just listen to my voice, okay? You’re having a panic attack.”

Shawn laughs. “No shit,” he wheezes, words tight. “Doesn’t help.”

“Okay, tell me what does,” Gus says. “Tell me what helps.”

“Nothing,” Shawn moans digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and sounding utterly broken. “Nothing helps anymore.”

*

His faucet is dripping. Shawn makes a mental note to fix it. Once he makes it up off this floor that is. He shifts, pressing his forehead a little harder into Gus’ shoulder breathing in the comfortingly familiar scent of his best friend. Gus smells nothing like Frederick. There's no eggs or coconut. Just the mild aroma of cocoa butter mingled with the ever present smell of Axe that permeates his bathroom.

Shawn shivers, shifts his position just a bit. He’s not exactly comfortable on the floor of his bathroom—his right foot is numb, his ass aches from sitting on the tile for God knows how long, and he’s developing a crick in his neck from keeping it bent at this angle—but he’s so fucking tired he doesn’t care and doesn’t think he could physically drag himself up off the floor even if he wanted to.

“Shawn?” Gus’ voice is quiet, but he may as well be shouting for how loudly the word sounds in the bathroom.

“Can we just…not talk?” Shawn whispers. “Please.”

Gus is silent a moment, shoulder shifting beneath Shawn’s head as he breathes in then out, long and slow. “Yeah, okay,” he says finally. “For now.”

*

“I remember the basement, you know,” Gus says later into the silence of the room and Shawn’s muscles coil, tense and ready to flee. He knows Gus can tell; his best friend’s hand comes up to rest heavy on the side of his neck, keeping him in place.

Shawn has half a mind to ask Gus to be quiet again, the words are on the tip of his tongue, but Gus keeps talking and the words lodge in his throat.

"I remember the walls and the lights and the feel of the gun against my head. I remember lookin’ at you and knowing you were gonna die and hearing that shot. And I was so surprised when Frederick just fell over instead.”

Shawn curls his fingers into the seam of his jeans, tries to focus more on the sound of Gus’ voice than the thundering of his heart. The floor of the bathroom is cold, the chill seeping into his bones and making him shiver. He pulls away from Gus again, and this time Gus lets him go. The harsh brightness of the light shines down on them, and Shawn hides his face in the crook of his elbow against drawn up knees.

“But the thing is, Shawn, after six weeks all that is starting to fade a bit. It’s still there, always will be, but I’m starting to forget exactly what shade of grey the walls were and what sound exactly the lights made as they were buzzing,” Gus continues and a hesitant hand lands on his shoulder squeezing tentatively. “But you aren’t, and you’re not going to. You still remember every little thing, don’t you?”

Shawn picks at a loose thread, squeezing his eyes shut at the flood of memories because there are too many and they’re still too clear.

“The cinderblocks were grey, the mortar between them was spotted with mold. There were forty-eight ceiling tiles, four lights, and the left bulb in the far right one flickered every six or seven seconds. There was a leaking pipe in the corner of the room,” Shawn whispers licking his lips and curling in on himself tighter. “He, he smelled like coconut and eggs. And you, you were…you were…”

“Shawn,” Gus says, “I’m begging you, please, _please_ call that therapist.”

Shawn drags his gaze up from the floor, meets Gus’ pleading brown eyes, and nods. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part three to be added soon. Stay tuned!


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